Requiem
by Rookie571
Summary: For a young fighter pilot, after seeing her ethereally descend from the heavens like a beautiful angel first-hand, time had seemed to ground to an absolute halt.
1. Small Beginnings

**_Hey, everyone! Hope you guys don't mind that I decided to post my very first Overwatch fic just for the hell of it. After I first played the game two months ago, I couldn't get it out of my mind no matter how much I tried. And the end result on that happened to be this. Be wary though, since I'm writing this from a USAF pilot's POV it's going to be a bit techno-heavy, and written with a lot of abbreviations. But worry not, I'm going to write a glossary at the end of this chapter to help the uninitiated understand what's going on._**

 ** _Without further ado, I bring you my first Overwatch fic. Don't forget to tell me what you guys think via reviews. Enjoy. :)_**

* * *

 _"—Dagger Three, you got omnic UCAV on your six…"_

 _"—Christ, where the hell are they all coming from…?"_

 _"—SAM launch, wave off! Wave the fuck...!"_

A burst of tracer fire zipped past his cockpit window, and on instinct he jerked his flight stick right and pulled back hard with his left hand, while the other gunned the throttle controls on the cockpit wall halfway to max output.

Moments later he felt his FA-1's twin turbofan engines accelerate on command, as he banked hard right to shake off his persistent pursuer, who was following him with such sheer tenacity and precision, that he knew only a cold, calculating machine could possess and manage.

 _"—multiple bandits four o'clock high! Engage, engage goddamn..."_

 _"—is Gunslinger Lead, Gunslinger Two is down. I say again, Gun…"_

Dogfighting with human beings was one thing, but engaging hostile and unfeeling omnic machine intelligence? That, however, was another thing entirely.

He sure as hell didn't expect for any of this to happen, that was for damned sure.

 _"—I'm hit, I'm hit! Dagger Five is ejecting! Grid coordinates to follow and…"_

One minute he was chilling at his base, thinking that the war was already over with these damned machines a while back, and the next thing he knew, they had already surged with a vengeance at multiple locations in East Asia without warning. Hitting them, and hitting them _hard._

Which currently led him being here now as of this moment, somewhere in the clear blue skies of South Korea, fighting for his dear life at twenty-five thousand feet AGL; with an enemy he knew he couldn't just blast so easily out of the sky like the flight sims from back when he was a trainee.

These bastards were so annoyingly unpredictable and precise, that they were practically forced to overhaul their entire doctrine on air power the first time they fought. Decades' worth of accumulative experience and knowledge, gained from countless engagements and battles since humans had first mastered powered flight—now figuratively and _literally_ lost to the wind; as their new enemy had essentially tossed the known principles and nuances of air-to-air combat and just unilaterally decided to make their own, compelling them to adapt to present circumstances.

That wasn't even mentioning the primary birds and weapons the omnics were now using against them. And all he could say on the matter was that, in such a short amount of time, they had managed to create such fine instruments of warfare; and it was pissing him off to a degree at how _fucking good_ it all was.

Their engines were good at generating a lot more thrust—and not actually breaking—their planes turned a helluva lot sharper, their air-to-air missiles insanely more accurate, and the guns. Dear God, the spread on those guns.

He cursed mentally as a second burst from the hostile UCAV—or unmanned combat aerial vehicle, for the uninitiated—flew past his helmet, just a little too close to his liking. Sweat poured freely from both his forehead and gloved hands, so much so that his fighter's controlled temp settings were already failing in trying to stave them off.

Another gun burst, and then he broke hard left. UCAV still in constant pursuit.

The distance between the two aircraft was dangerously decreasing, and it wouldn't be long now until his luck ran out and those omnic guns' legendary accuracy would blast his sorry ass out of the sky.

What was it that his squadron commander had told them in their pre-mission brief a few hours ago?

Ah, yes.

'We will engage hostile forces in the AO with superior and overwhelming firepower,' the guy had said, 'preferably from beyond visual range, with the help of dedicated AWACS birds and BVR ordnance. If that fails, close in and engage enemy with heat-seekers and in standard two-ship formations.'

That was the plan that they had dutifully followed to the letter. That is, right up until the instant the omnics just come out of nowhere, and started picking them off easily one by one.

Right now his wingman was God knows where, probably in the same situation he was at the moment, or had already bought it from taking an omnic heat-seeker straight down his throat, he didn't know. Their AWACS bird, which was supposed to spot for them at a distance and help them engage these assholes from beyond visual range—while giving them an edge—suddenly went offline; and to make matters worse, those clever robots had cunningly set up a surface-to-air kill-zone from right under their goddamn noses, even when initial sat-sweeps had indicated and verified that this area was clear of anything.

It went without saying, of course, but it didn't take a genius to know how utterly screwed he was right this second.

 _"All call signs this net, this is Anvil Lead,"_ his helmet's built-in speakers suddenly squawked as he listened in on it half-heartedly, his primary focus obviously elsewhere, _"be advised, Juliet Actual is down. I repeat, Juliet Actual has been shot down. Break."_

"Tell me something I don't know." He spoke to himself as he pulled back a bit on the flight stick to gain some altitude.

Since they suddenly lost comms with them mid-transmission, he already knew in the back of his mind that Juliet Actual—the AWACS bird that was providing them with long-range scanners and was also directing the clearly one-sided air battle for them—had perhaps been shot down already, with its crew on their way to meeting their Maker in the afterlife.

Everyone with half a fucking brain knew that much, to say the least.

And who was it that was transmitting right now? Anvil Lead? If he recalled correctly, that was Captain Halverson's call sign, wasn't it?

New guy, just fresh off from flight school and East Point, if his memory served him right. That almost certainly explained why he was stating the fucking obvious. Damn FNG.

Also probably explained why the FNG's voice from earlier was somewhat indecisive. In another time, the guys from the squadron would undoubtedly give the man hell for it just right after the mission was over. Now was not going to be that time, though.

 _"Also got word of an Overwatch strike team en route to the AO now."_ Anvil Lead—aka Halverson the FNG—continued on. _"They just established comms, says they'll be on-site in less than twenty-five mikes to take out the omnic See-Three-Eye site. Inbound from east-south-east at bearing one-zero-niner, angels one at grid tango-whiskey-two-two-four-seven-eight-one, speed three hundred knots. Single transport with no available escort. They're requesting immediate air cover all the way towards the X. Over."_

Wait, wait—Overwatch?

Here?

Now?

 _Really?_

Well, isn't that just fucking great!

As if they weren't busy enough trying to wrestle away this airspace from these relentless gearheads, now they have to play babysitter to a bunch of certified UN prima donnas, too?

He gritted his teeth in frustration. The omnic UCAV on his tail had already halved the distance between them in less than three minutes, and his aircraft's thermal sensors were actually registering the heat of the cannon rounds whizzing all around him.

It was that close.

In case those glorified action heroes haven't noticed, him and what was left of his guys in the 25th Tactical Fighter Squadron were getting their lily-white asses handed to them. And if this kept up, what was left of their squadron was surely going to be nothing more than atomized vapor, hanging in the clouds at the end of the day for all of eternity.

He _really_ did not have any intention of being vaporized. Not if he could help it.

And as much as he appreciated Overwatch's timely arrival—since they were pretty much the reason why the original Omnic Crisis was resolved after all—he really didn't want to die a heroic death just yet.

 _"Punisher One, Anvil Lead,"_ Halverson's voice called out to him all of a sudden, slightly surprising him, _"sit-rep, over."_

Anvil Lead, singling him out by name? What the hell does he want with him now?

"Anvil Lead, Punisher One," he responded with a curt and somewhat strained voice, just going along with it, "I got an omnic UCAV right up on my six, and he ain't letting go anytime soon. Don't know where in the hell my wingman is, and I think this son-of-a-bitch drone is cornering me into their SAM envelope at the primary target area. Over."

 _"Roger. Interrogative: can you shake him off?"_

"Dunno, here's hoping to hell I can."

 _"Punisher One, be advised, you're the closest bird in the area to render assistance to the Overwatch strike team. The rest of the squadron is too far off, and unless omnic air dominance lets up, we cannot reach your position in time to assist. They're commandeering your bird as of now to provide air cover. Over."_

What?

Did the FNG just really— _him? Really?_

He took a quick peek at his console's navigation panel just a foot away from him, to try and actually confirm Anvil's statement, and his blood ran boiling.

There, on his GPS nav-panel, was a single blue dot that wasn't there before. Encrypted data traffic from said dot was now automatically squawking back to his bird, to identify that the dot itself was a friendly and indeed was also sporting authentic Overwatch IFF tags. And it was also just a grid square or two away from him, practically next door.

Son of a—

"Say again your last, Anvil Lead. Did not copy last transmission."

 _"I say again, Punisher One is being retasked by Overwatch to provide assistance to their op, and establish overhead air cover in support of their ground assault."_

"But—"

 _"It's out of our hands, Punisher One. Right now their CO is reciting me passages of this 'United Nations Omnic Defense and Security Treaty', and how apparently they have jurisdiction for this op. As of five minutes ago, they have complete execute authority."_

"Tell them to go take a fucking number, then! I got—!"

His aircraft unexpectedly shook moderately, and the action jostled him a bit from his seat and his restraints. His helmet's built-in speakers rang a quick incessant bleeping, followed by the holographic console and heads-up display in front of him lighting up; displaying a top-down wireframe diagram of his FA-1, with a portion of his left wing's central area being highlighted in yellow, shown along with the words, 'light damage'.

He craned his head to the left.

And lo and behold, just right outside of his cockpit canopy, was several streaks of black that had now adorned the left forward-swept wing of his fighter.

Impact grazes from the UCAV rotary gun's cannon rounds, most likely. He was amazed it didn't completely shear the entire wing off, considering the rounds' infamous aftereffects (i.e. piercing armor _then_ exploding).

His on-board computers had automatically run a quick structural diagnostic on the fighter's airframe, and deemed that his aircraft was still operational and was not going to completely tear apart at the seams. For now, anyways.

Although his gut on the other hand was telling him that he had about a minute or two tops before this bastard was going to snuff his lights out forever.

Goddamn it.

 _"Punisher One, acknowledge transfer of execute authority."_

"Yeah, yeah," he impatiently answered back, "Punisher One copies all."

It would appear that he had won the babysitting gig by default.

Lucky him.

 _"Those Overwatch guys will probably contact you momentarily. Good luck, Punisher One."_

He snorted at the other pilot's statement before he killed the channel off.

"'Good luck', my ass."

He really didn't have a lot of options to choose from here, regarding his current predicament of being someone—or in this case, something's—prey. If he was going to go back to the doctrine in which he was so rigorously trained upon, it's logic would dictate that he does one of two things in a scenario like this.

First, he takes full advantage of his aircraft's supposedly sharper turn radius in order to outshoot the enemy first, and successfully kill him with guns and/or a variety of air-to-air ordnance at his disposal.

Which really isn't going to happen anytime soon, considering the omnics have possession of obviously advanced aircraft; whose superior handling characteristics suit their clearly inhuman acrobatic maneuvers, that would otherwise kill a regular human pilot such as himself in an instant.

So that would be a definite no-go on that.

Or he could probably consider doing the second route, which was the most prevalent aerial warfare tactic in the early-to-mid 21st century.

Whereas he would engage hostile targets from beyond visual range, with the aid of his aircraft's or another asset's long-range radars/sensors, then let loose a bunch of fire-and-forget missiles that would systematically home in on the target's location at vast distances, on its own will _after_ it had left the rails without the aid of further guidance from the pilot.

And no, as much as he hated to admit it, that too was also not going to work. Probably because all of the aircraft that both the omnics and humans have sent to kill each other have reduced radar cross sections, radar absorbent material and angular airframe construction; making them all but impossible to see on radar except via visual/optical imaging sighting or IR tracking.

In essence, it was pretty much wishful thinking at this point in time.

He can't kill them from long-range—which was obviously what him and most of the pilots in the world would prefer—and he apparently can't outturn the enemy without dying first from the extreme g-forces that would entail.

How in the hell did those fighter jocks from back during the day beat these gearheads in the original Omnic Crisis?

With the lack of more logical options, only one idea came to mind.

And it was supremely fucking dumb. Even by his standards.

"Ah, fuck this."

He jammed his throttle lever all the way forward.

In an instant, unadulterated momentum roots him firmly to his seat as his fighter's twin turbofan thrusters go on full burn, rocketing him high up towards the clouds at full speed whilst pulling back hard on the flight control stick.

In less than ten seconds, he's already broken through the sound barrier with a resounding sonic boom.

Which was followed by another one extremely close by, as his omnic pursuer dutifully followed in due pace.

His altimeter was already showing that he was slipping past the 39,000 feet mark in the time it took a person to breathe, while the IAS indicator on his HUD showed that he was speeding like a bat out of hell at Mach 2 and rising.

Throughout various points on his body, his worn g-suit was tightening its hold on his lower extremities; and he could feel his legs slowly numbing away, as the suit spontaneously began diverting blood away from them and pushing them straight to his brain, doing its task to hopefully make him avoid incurring G-LOC—or g-force induced loss of consciousness—and still be fully awake to do his job.

And also not crash into a fiery death, while he was at it.

His spur-of-the-moment 'plan', as fucking crazy as it was to begin with, relied on a combination of a few things that needed to happen. From going straight up towards the sky—which he was currently doing at the moment—to spoofing the omnic UCAV's sensors for just the shortest of moments, and then gunning it down with his internal 30mm rotary cannon while it was still readjusting from the prior spoofing.

And it had to be in that order specifically, with the events also having to occur at near-simultaneous moments from the other. Which wasn't exactly the easiest thing to do, especially under these circumstances.

If it all went accordingly, then he only had about five seconds, give or take, before the enemy UCAV would successfully recalibrate its spoofed optics and sensors; while eventually realizing how precarious its newfound position was and then immediately disengage, waiting it out until it found itself in a suitable position for another run at a takedown.

If he failed though, then there was no doubt in his mind that he was going to die in the hands of a pitiless machine, that's not going to feel anything once it shot his ass down in a fiery blaze.

He only had one shot at this.

 _"Alert,"_ his aircraft's virtual assistant piped in on his helmet's speakers with a robotic female monotone, _"altitude now at forty-four thousand feet AGL and rising. Speed fourteen hundred knots closure and increasing. Hostile aircraft distance at fifty meters and closing. Recommend immediate course of action."_

"No shit." He sarcastically told the lifeless voice as a way of reply, even though he knew the annoying but useful assistant would never fully comprehend him besides rudimentary commands and instructions.

Behind him, his lone pursuer had inched even more closer than before.

It wasn't firing off any more prolonged cannon bursts as much as it did previously, he just noticed. Preferring to just catch up with him using its superior thrust capability and maneuverability, then downing him once the opportunity arose, which was pretty much going to happen in just a few minutes.

If he would warrant an educated guess, it was probably because it was calculating that the closer it was to the target (aka, him) the more successful its chances were of shooting him down and taking him out of the equation permanently. He most likely would've done the exact same thing if the situation was reversed.

This particular omnic bastard was definitely a clever one, wasn't it?

He certainly wasn't going to give this gearhead the satisfaction of shooting him down. Not now, not ever.

"Right, here goes nothing."

With an outstretched hand, along with all his hopes and dreams, he pressed a single button on his flight console.

And behind him, on his FA-1's rear just near and in-between the twin FNX-5010-K engines, four dispensers filled with several dozen canisters of aluminum chaff and high-intensity heat flares burst forth like an exploding geyser.

The canisters containing the chaff broke apart at its pre-programmed safe distance, quickly spreading thousands of tiny Mylar fragments and forming a damn-near impenetrable cloud of aluminum that covered a sizeable area just right on his tail.

The flares followed suit afterwards, the cylinders encasing the magnesium thermite compound igniting brightly like miniature suns, with the scorching golf-ball sized objects burning at almost a fraction of the star's temperature.

Both the Mylar cloud and the ignited flares seemed to linger in the air for just the briefest of moments—

—right before slamming directly into the unsuspecting and speeding omnic UCAV a fraction of a second later, like bugs splattering to a windshield.

It took him about a solid second before he came to terms with what just happened, and his initial disbelief had started to subside along with his agape jaw. But still…

He can't believe that actually worked!

The omnic birds had better speed and maneuverability, that went without saying of course, and everyone knew that since the dawn of the original crisis two decades' back. But for some reason, their primary sensors weren't as formidable as the rest of their gear. If anything else, it seemed as if the gearheads lagged behind in that department compared to the ones bolted on unto his bird.

As to the exact cause was as to why the omnics' instruments sucked ass, he really didn't know, nor did he actually want to. What matters was that he sure as hell didn't care, as long as it worked to his advantage right the hell now.

From his flight helmet's augmented reality functionality, he could see that the portions of the Mylar cloud had been sucked directly into the UCAV engine's air intakes, and the flares that did manage to hit the hostile aircraft started to burn sizeable holes unto the front end of the sleek hull. He had expected the former happening, but was more than surprised at the latter's occurrence.

The turbofan thrusters on the enemy bird were now starting to spew noticeable gray smoke, courtesy of the chaff that mucked up the turbines within; and its flight attitude was starting to get increasingly erratic due to the aerodynamics undergoing sudden fluctuations, via the jagged holes in its airframe.

This was it.

He quickly jerked back on both the throttle and the flight control stick, slowing his generated thrust down from full power and angling his bird upwards respectively. The sudden reorientation of his FA-1's angle, coupled with engine thrust being instantly lowered to two-thirds from max output, resulted in an almost disorientating deceleration that rocked his bird greatly. The abrupt and sudden maneuver had also made him grunt subconsciously, as the extensive g-forces from his stunt exacted a not-so-smooth toll on his body, while his restraints held him in place from the sudden inertial shift.

Just slightly below him, however, the omnic UCAV was unaware of his pulling off a heavily modified Pugachev's cobra, and proceeded to still fly straight and true into higher altitudes as if he was still in front of it.

And just conveniently right ahead of his sights.

He didn't even have to wait for his gunsight pipper to calculate a targeting solution before he depressed the trigger on his flight stick.

A near-constant stream of tracer fire erupted from his left, just a few feet away from his cockpit, as his FA-1's built-in 30mm rotary cannon started to rapidly spew out M297 HEI-T-SD shells in multiple ten round bursts, with each barely lasting a second and sounding like an enormous zipper closing off.

And at just about thirty-five meters apart, every round fired had impacted the omnic UCAV from front-to-end with dead-perfect accuracy.

By the time the hostile aircraft had unwittingly sped off further past him and into higher skies, it had already become a raging fireball, as one of his cannon rounds struck the bird's fuel tanks and set off a massive secondary explosion, with bits and pieces of his erstwhile adversary fragmenting into a dozen different directions.

Splash one omnic bandit. His very first gearhead kill.

And hopefully not his last.

Said fireball was now descending back to earth in an unusually graceful arc, as the excess momentum that rocketed it to the skies earlier had now bleed off, and decided to let gravity do the rest.

The entire engagement had all but lasted less than ten minutes, but to him it all felt like one huge blur after the other.

His plan, if he could even call it that, had actually succeeded. And all it took for him, to formulate such a stupid-ass idea right out of his ass, was to be scared shitless from an imminent death by remorseless machine.

It could've been worse, he supposed.

Shrugging off his post-kill high, he checked his long-range scanner panel to see if his sensors were registering any nearby threats, and was immensely grateful that he saw none.

Satisfied that no one was going to bushwhack him out of nowhere anytime soon, he gradually decreased his overall air speed and did a split-S, turning back around while lowering his altitude to rendezvous with the Overwatch transport just a few klicks away.

More than once on the way to his new tasker, he was hoping that these overhyped heroes wouldn't do anything that would warrant him getting killed.

* * *

 _ **Glossary:**_

 _ **UCAV -** unmanned combat aerial vehicle (basically fighter without pilot)._

 _ **Tracer -** special bullets that can burn brightly to enable the shooter to see the rounds' trajectories._

 _ **SAM -** surface-to-air missile (pretty self-explanatory)._

 _ **AGL -** above ground level (is a height measured with respect to the underlying ground surface)._

 _ **AO -** area of operations._

 _ **AWACS -** airborne warning and control system (essentially one big flying radar station that can guide and direct fighters in aerial combat)._

 _ **BVR -** beyond visual range._

 ** _Two-ship formation -_** _USAF_ _version of the buddy system (i.e. wingman)._

 _ **FNG -** fucking new guy._

 _ **Mikes -** military jargon for minutes._

 _ **Comms -** jargon for communications._

 _ **C3I -** command, control, communications and intelligence; pronounced as 'see-three-eye' (think command center)._

 _ **Angels -** brevity code for altitude (angels one means one thousand feet, two for two thousand and so on)._

 _ **Knots -** nautical miles (is a unit of speed that measures 1.852 kph, or approximately 1.151 mph; mainly used for air and maritime navigation)._

 ** _Sit-rep -_** _situational report (basically a military version of 'what's up?')._

 ** _IFF tags -_** _identification friend-or-foe (system designed for command and control, allows people to differentiate vehicle as either friendly or hostile)._

 ** _Execute authority -_** _means a higher-ranked officer can do whatever the hell he/she wants._

 ** _G-forces -_** _is a measurement of the type of acceleration that causes weight (close example would be on a speedboat)._

 _ **IAS -**_ _indicated air speed (aircraft speedometer that displays knots)._ _  
_

 _ **Flight attitude -**_ _orientation of aircraft relative to the Earth's horizon._

 ** _Mach -_** _a measure of speed based on the speed of sound._

 _ **Pugachev's cobra -**_ _a dramatic and demanding maneuver in which an airplane flying at a moderate-to-high speed suddenly raises the nose momentarily to the vertical position and slightly beyond, before dropping it back to normal flight._

 _ **Pipper -**_ _a predicted impact pointer (PIP) marker on a pilot's HUD that shows the projected location of where a ballistic projectile is expected to strike when fired._

 _ **HEI-T-SD -**_ _high explosive incendiary, tracer, self-destroying (primary ammunition for use against high-speed aerial targets)._

 _ **Splash -**_ _military jargon for hitting target with expended munition._

 _ **Split-S -**_ _is an_ _air combat maneuver mostly used to disengage from combat; where the pilot half-rolls his aircraft inverted and executes a descending half-loop, resulting in level flight in the exact opposite direction at a lower altitude._

* * *

 _ **And there you have it. Here's hoping it wasn't such a complete turn off for the people here who prefer a casual read, I'll try my best to limit the jargons to a minimum next time.**_


	2. Empirical Evidence

_**Just to put this out there, I'm not really that much of a writer. I try my best to emulate all those awesome fanfic authors that I've favorited over the years, but I always come up short. If you, the reader, happens to be a kick-ass and proven writer in your own right (and is actually willing to help the likes of me) please do haaaalp. Haha. Anyways, here's the second chapter to my story.**_

 _ **As always, if you see anything wrong, or just want to voice something, there's always the PM or review option to let me know. Enjoy!**_

* * *

By the time he had made visual contact with the lumbering Overwatch transport, he still hadn't received any radio transmission whatsoever from the UN strike team within it, as was promised from Anvil Lead earlier. When he tried contacting the good 'ole FNG captain himself on the standard tac-net, trying to ask him why they haven't even bothered talking to him yet, he didn't get anything on the line other than eerie static. Annoyed, he tried hailing the guy three more times, until it became clear to him that he wasn't going to get though.

At the top of his head, he could come up with about a dozen different reasons why his calls weren't receiving; with everything ranging from atmospheric interference, unexpected wavelength fluctuations, or just pretty much that the other party was already dead, and six feet under.

He even thought that his own comms system was on the fritz.

Subsequently, as an unnecessary precaution and as way to placate his simmering temper, he did a quick and thorough diagnostic on all of his bird's radio communications. Just to be sure.

And as expected a few seconds later, it was telling him that nothing was actually wrong on his end. At least, according to what the plane's flight computers had told him.

So, not really knowing what else to do, he brought his own FA-1 forward as close as possible, to what looked like a Chinese-made tactical transport; while also setting up a short-range point-to-point communication broadcast with the nearby bird.

He settled for flying alongside seventy feet off of the transport's seven o'clock before he started transmitting.

"Overwatch transport, Overwatch transport," he said as he maintained his formation in conjunction with the UN aircraft, his voice all professional-like, "this is USAF fighter, call sign Punisher Zero-One off of your immediate seven o'clock. Transmitting in a blind guard via point-to-point comms link. Do you read, over?"

Nothing.

What the hell…?

He scoffed derisively inside his flight helmet, not caring that he was still transmitting.

Something was definitely wrong here. He didn't know what it was, nor could he come up with an explanation as to why these overly publicized action figures were still not talking back to him, even on short-range comms.

And for an organization that was supposed to be at the peak of intergovernmental funding, widespread renown, and advanced technological marvel, they sure as hell weren't giving off any of that impression to him right about now.

With just a slight increase in his air speed—and a little finessing on his flight stick—he flew his fighter even nearer to the bird. Closing the approximate distance between them to just about fifty-five feet, now at the transport's nine o'clock. Their respective flight decks were already flying parallel to the other, just a tad bit too close for comfort, and defying all of the known flights regs he'd come to know by heart when it came to formation flying.

Plus, just like his own cockpit, the transport's glass canopy was also opaque with reflective mirror coating. Which was probably variable, and could be rendered transparent depending on the big bird pilot's mood.

Not that it's really helping him right this particular moment.

"I say again, this is USAF fighter, call sign Punisher Zero-One now at your immediate nine o'clock. Transmitting in a blind guard through point-to-point comms link. Is anyone receiving?

…

…

…

Still nothing.

God-fucking-damn it, this was getting really old real fast.

"Someone, anyone…"

He made a few taps on his main interface display, to make his own cockpit's bubble canopy change from a glossy reflective coating to transparent glass; then faced right, as he wildly waved a free hand to the other bird's flight cabin as soon as the transition had finished, and his view of his immediate surroundings lightened.

"Hellooooo…?"

Not even a fucking peep.

Were they actually serious?

Either all of this was just a tiny misunderstanding based on a malfunctioning piece of equipment on their part, which he could try his best to understand; or they were _deliberately_ screwing with him, because he was just some lowly first lieutenant in the United States Air Force, not even remotely suitable enough to hear their oh-so majestic voices—or even actually breathe in the same air as them—just because he wasn't in the ranks of the world's most comprehensive collection of pampered divas.

If it was actually the latter, he swore to God right then and there that he was going to pull out his service sidearm, and shove it all the way towards their puckered little as—

"For Christ's sake. Someone answer, damn it!" He started to rant with gritted teeth as his voice began to raise in volume. "Anyone! Look, I don't really care if it's the giant Kraut in the prissy armor doing all the talking, or if it's the little bearded bastard with a claw for a hand, the giant talking monkey with jetpacks, or even that hot MILF sniper with the blue beret; as long as someone answers on the damn _friggin'_ line, I would _greatly_ appreciate it."

For the third time, not even a whisper.

He tightened his grip on his flight control stick, careful not to accidentally press any of the buttons and triggers that would deliberately convey commands to his FA-1's weapons systems.

Although, presently, he was already entertaining the very notion of it.

"Maybe I should just fire a warning burst so damn close to your canopy, it'll slightly melt the glass from proximity and—"

"— _hello? Can you hear me?"_ A rumbling, and somewhat docile voice, suddenly found its way through the line. Speaking perfect US of A English. _"Is this thing on…? Hello…"_

"Yes!" He didn't even try to hide his relief as he yelled inside his cockpit, and then responded. "About goddamn time! What the hell, man?"

" _Our deepest apologies, Mister Punisher."_ The deep voice continued speaking in that unusually polite tone, regardless of everything mean he had just said a second ago. _"We had a few…technical difficulties, regarding our communication systems. You see, an unexpected EMP burst from my colleague's malfunctioning equipment a while ago had suddenly rendered all of our incoming and most of our outgoing transmissions inactive; making us unable to respond to your previous hails. If we have inconvenienced you in any way, then…"_

The guy went on, practically droning.

Was…was he actually for real?

Here they all were, in the jaws of life and death, just shirking the really thin boundary between survival and utter destruction; all the while battling for supremacy against relentless machines, who were hell-bent on wiping out every living thing on the planet. And this dude was calmly talking to him as if he was explaining a _fucking lecture!_

Wasn't this polite dude not comprehending the fact that he and his Overwatch friends could legit die at any moment? With causes differing from explosive shell fragments penetrating via triple-A fire, or explosive decompression from the time when their transport comes apart?

Seriously, no one is _ever_ that calm. And he's essentially seen, and clearly heard, battle-hardened combat veterans who even scream their lungs out when the inevitable excrement hits the oscillation.

To say he was weirded out would be an understatement.

"… _and in conclusion,"_ the dude still kept on talking, not even remotely stopping, _"I'm the only one here with a functioning transceiver. So whatever you want to report to us, I'll do my best to relay it to the rest of my teammates and take it from there. As for your, 'giant talking monkey with jetpacks' remark, however, I'm inclined to point out that empirical evidence suggests that I am a scien—"_

"Yeah, yeah, that's really nice and all," he cut him off without preamble, not even bothering with the courteous niceties, "but we have about—", he checks his HUD, "—less than ten minutes 'til your shiny transport hits max range out of an omnic SAM battery's last known position. And I highly doubt you all want to be disintegrated into millions of tiny little pieces. Now, if you've got someone on your end who knows how to effectively communicate using established radio protocols, please let him know. And I'll be sure to appreciate it."

He made sure to say the last sentence without sounding like a really sarcastic ass.

Well, trying to anyway.

"— _Mister Punisher says he needs someone who knows how to—"_

"Oh, dear Lord…"

It went on for about a few more seconds or so, before the annoyingly nice guy managed to relay what he wanted them to know.

" _Mister Punisher, my commander says he wants a 'sit-rep' regarding your mission, along with…uh, all known 'dispositions' regarding these known 'SAM sites' and 'triple-A' emplacements along this 'AO'."_

He could _actually_ feel the understated quotation marks on some of the relevant terms mentioned. And right now, not cringing every so often was pretty much an exercise in futility when talking to this guy.

This dude obviously meant well, certainly. But goddamn if he really wasn't suited at all to being in a bona fide field op.

Not by a long shot.

"Just Punisher is fine—uh…who did you say you were again?"

" _The name's Win—wait, what's that? I'm not allowed to say my real name? Why not?"_ It sounded as if the nice guy was probably talking to someone else on his end, but the mic wasn't picking up the aforementioned fella's chatter, besides the pleasant guy's own. _"American military protocols? Is that so?"_

He really did his best to try and not be so pissed about this casual, if not blatant, disregard for proper comms procedure. So far, he was utterly failing though.

"— _for now, you can call me Two-Kilo, Mister Punisher."_

As talking to pretty much an obvious civilian went, this was a somewhat…decent start. One can only imagine how worse this might get.

"Alright, Two-Kilo. Standby for traffic and relay."

" _Uhm…"_

"Look, just listen intently and memorize all of what I'm saying. Then relay it, word for word, to your own boss. Got it?"

" _As you say."_

"Alright, sit-rep as follows," he took a quick steadying breath before proceeding with his on-site brief, hoping that the other guy can get all this, "my squadron was originally tasked with securing this airspace away from omnic hands. And then provide overhead air cover afterwards, for the eventual allied MEKA assault towards the omnic See-Three-Eye site that's been set-up somewhere in the area. You got that so far?"

" _I did."_

"You sure?"

" _Mister Punisher,"_ the other guy began self-assuredly with just a hint of poise, _"as you may have noticed, I'm not particularly well-versed in matters regarding the military. But I can very much assure you, that I have every confidence in my eidetic memory's ability to instantly recall pertinent information. So please, do go on. Don't let me stop you."_

"Uh, okay…" He cleared his throat awkwardly, not exactly knowing how to take that. "Unfortunately, omnic air power and their integrated defense network was far greater than we expected. What we assumed was just a token raiding force turned out to be a reinforced squadron of UCAVs, supported by what looked like elements of a significant groundside presence, and both mobile SAM and triple-A batteries set-up all along the perimeter of the target area. Those batteries don't usually stay put in one spot for long. They fire a quick missile or cannon burst, turn off their sensors, then move away before our dedicated SEAD birds can fully take them out of play. And so far, we've lost a couple of friendlies to them than we did with the initial UCAV ambush that followed before and soon after."

" _Hmmm…"_

He didn't know whether that hum was the other party being thoroughly confused at what he was saying, or he was sounding off for him to continue. Not really realizing what it meant, he just assumed it was the latter and hoped for the best.

"Our time table expects us to mop up the rest of these guys by fourteen hundred hours. Up till now, we're barely holding on as it is. As much as I hate to admit it, the omnics have complete dominance of the skies and probably on the ground. We only have about less than an hour before those friendly MEKA drones are due to arrive, and when they do, those hostile UCAVs will most likely tear them to shreds before they can even reach their respective objectives. In addition to that, before our AWACS support got cut off, we were told beforehand that overall air strength for this strike was scarcely down to half, and our dedicated support assets are already spent, if not completely nonexistent.

"So to sum it all up, Two-Kilo, things…" he concluded the brief with a bit disheartened sigh, "things are not really going well."

" _I see…"_ The guy on the other line said. _"Is that all, Mister Punisher?"_

He wasn't going to lie, the whole 'mister' thing was starting to get on his nerves. But he willed himself to let it pass.

"Yep. Tell your boss I'll support you the best I can, but don't expect anything on my end that'll turn the tide."

" _I understand, please give us a moment."_

Before the guy left to tell the others everything that he just said, he was more than grateful that at least he had the courtesy of switching his radio off this time around, so there wouldn't be any irrelevant radio traffic.

Small mercies at its finest.

Thinking back now though, he didn't really know whether his prior dogfight before this RV was either a blessing or a curse.

On one hand, those ten minutes—trying not to die in a blazing death—did somewhat take his mind off the fact that nearly half of his squadron was already dead, and the other half already on its way on joining the other in the afterlife.

Omnic air was clearly not planning on letting up anytime soon; and without any of the constant AWACS support to coordinate C2 actions for them at this battlespace, all he and the rest of the guys from the 25th were pretty much just a disorganized mob, fighting individual holding actions until they were all slowly being killed off one by one through superior numbers and tactics.

It didn't help that their comms were being hampered by either omnics, mother nature, or fucking God knows what; making further coordination with what was left of the USAF fighter squadron all but impossible.

The only time he could recall being through worse odds such as this one was about a year ago in Alaska. Although he'd been facing Russian air superiority fighters manned by actual human pilots at the time, and—his fragile ego notwithstanding—he really did kick some serious ass back then. And they actually won that engagement, despite being heavily outnumbered and outgunned before the cavalry arrived.

But everything about this latest action was thoroughly different from his last major one.

Whereas he had constant comms with the higher-ups and the rest of his flight all throughout that battle, he could barely even get a peep from anyone here now.

Plus, the only thing that got them going through that harsh ordeal was the promise of massive reinforcement from the mainland. Here on the other hand, he wasn't even sure that help was even going to bother coming.

He really had a bad feeling about this one. And it scared the living hell out him.

" _Mister Punisher, Two-Kilo here again."_ The nice guy returned after a momentary wait, breaking him out of his trance. _"Are you there?"_

Never was he so glad as to actually hear the guy's voice again, even if it was just a surprising way to unwittingly break him out of his moment of helplessness and desperation.

Guess he was actually good for something after all.

"Affirmative, Two-Kilo. Punisher One copies all."

" _My commander has formulated a plan. What he wants us to do is…"_

* * *

"No!" He vehemently replied, just a few moments after the man had finished outlining his commander's proposal. "Hell, no!"

" _Mister Punisher—"_

"Is he fucking insane?"

" _I'm assured that it's a reasonable pla—"_

"If by reasonable, you mean somewhat fucking ridiculous? Then yeah, I completely agree." He cut off the nice guy with a venomous tone, uncharacteristically feeling bad about it afterwards. "Has he lost his mind? For all we know, the target site could be littered with a _billion_ anti-air sites, and we wouldn't even know about it!"

" _Standard omnic doctrine would dictate heavy defenses all around the perimeter of their See-Two protocols, Mister Punisher, but not necessarily within it."_ The guy soothingly guaranteed him. _"We'll be fine. You have my word on that."_

He clenched his teeth in vexation, consciously holding back his full-blown temper and his loud voice.

Doctrine? What fucking doctrine?

To say the omnics would abide by standard doctrinal thinking would heavily imply that they _actually_ follow a set-rule of routines; routines that could truly be seen, and would easily enable military planners to perceive a pattern of operational predictability, that would otherwise help them plan accordingly in dealing with them in the near-future.

Most of the time, making credible war plans in the military dealt with wondering what the other guy was thinking, and then finding a way to tap into it so that when the time came the good guys could fight on their terms, and not on the opposing forces'. Same goes with operational tempo and strategic planning.

In reality, all of warfare is based on deception, that much is certain. But the question was, what happens when your enemy is immune to the human element of it, and decides to wage combat on _their_ terms instead?

That was the problem with omnics.

They were fighting an entirely different kind of conflict, a whole new generation of total war that the world had not seen and prepared for accordingly. They figuratively rewrote everything in the playbook, use those conceptualized theories for just about a little while, then rewrite everything again as if there was nothing there. They easily tore down proven and battle-tested military formulae, that's been in use since time immemorial, in just a blink of an eye. From the deep battle maneuver warfare concepts developed by the Soviets in the 1930s, down to the small-unit tactics that US infantry fire teams had perfected for use in skirmishes; nothing was ever sacred to them.

In fact, when one was waging war with an omnic, the only predictable thing about fighting them was how totally unpredictable they all were.

And yet these Overwatch guys were here _claiming_ to understand omnic thinking and their thought processes. Can they actually be trusted at their word?

Granted, the last great omnic threat back during the day was neutralized, due in no small part to them. But that was almost twenty-four years ago.

A lot of things can happen and change in nearly two and a half decades.

What the hell was he going to do?

" _Trust us, Mister Punisher. I swear to you now, you're in good hands."_

He's practically all alone, scared out of his goddamn mind, and probably about to commit suicide, by blindly trusting an organization that's been widely known in some military circles as a loose maverick and supremely impulsive.

And they were asking him to trust them.

Damn it, he was way too young for all of this shit.

What was he going to do? This was way over his head.

He looked at his HUD, and saw that they were about five minutes away before they made contact with the omnic C3I site's ostensible defense perimeter.

It was do or die now, that was for damned sure.

With a deep breath, he looked at the transport's cockpit from right beside his own.

"Fuck this, I'm going to die anyway…"

* * *

 ** _Glossary:_**

 ** _Blind guard -_ **_is a transmission made without obtaining a receipt, or acknowledgment of reception before or after, from the intended receiving recipient (also known as blind transmission)._

 _ **Triple-A -** anti-aircraft artillery (think flak cannons)._

 ** _SEAD -_** _suppression of enemy air defenses; pronounced as either 'seed' or 'see-yad' (are military actions aimed to suppress enemy surface-based air defenses)._

 _ **MEKA -** Mobile Exo-Force of the Korean Army (was originally an all-drone unit designed by the South Korean government, in response to the massive omnic that rose from the sea to attack their country a few years back; network controlling said drones was eventually compromised in latter engagements with hostile omnic forces sometime later; just think_ _of that cute Korean Starcraft player's_ _giant robot, but originally designed without the pilot)._

 ** _RV -_** _military shorthand for rendezvous._

 ** _C2 -_** _command and control; pronounced as 'See-Two'._


	3. Vocal Chords

" _Just remember, Mister Punisher, to please shut down all long-range radio communications and active sensors."_ Two-Kilo had courteously reminded him. _"With the exception of point-to-point broadcasts and passive instruments, we should relatively be fine."_

'Should relatively be fine'? What the hell does that even mean?

Annoyingly calm as the other guy was, despite what they were about to do, Two-Kilo really should work on his social skills better, if he wanted to be taken seriously and not as a fucking nut.

Nevertheless, he already did what the guy had asked the second he was told about it beforehand anyway. But since he was extremely paranoid to the point of absurdity from the time he was dumb enough to actually assent to this 'plan', he checked on it again via his cockpit display panels, just to be sure.

And he was. For the fourth time, at least. Not that it was really helping soothe his fraying nerves at all.

No, siree. Not one damned bit.

Also, if ever there was a record out there somewhere, that he could clearly state on how much of a suicidal plan this all was—hell, even more crazier than his dumbass stunt, just prior to this one—then he would've undoubtedly be already screaming right now at the top of his lungs.

Yet he _actually_ had the balls to do all this regardless. Because, way he figured it earlier, he thought he was probably going to die at this stupid sortie sooner or later; and he wanted to be all nonchalant and be recklessly brave about it.

To say he was regretting everything at the moment would be an understatement of colossally epic proportions.

" _Warning: omnic probable air detection range, ten kilometers and closing,"_ his virtual assistant monotonously prompted once his plane hit the point-of-no-return, _"danger, multiple threats in the vicinity, please reroute immediately."_

In any case, he was sort of glad that he wasn't the only one who thought how crazy this all was. Even if it was just his plane's lifeless VA, and not a sane, rational person like he would've wanted.

He only had about a few more seconds' worth of breathing room left 'til both their planes hit the omnic's prospective sensor-net, and his gut was clenching so damn bad it was making him sweat even more buckets underneath all of his gear, and the preceding perspiration beforehand. Moreover, his hand gripping the throttle control slightly shook at the prospect of entering enemy-controlled airspace, where he had begrudgingly condemned himself to do nothing, since apparently that was cornerstone of this entire 'plan' to begin with.

Unwittingly flying blind into hostile territory? That was one thing, sure. Though doing it intentionally nevertheless, while not trying to employ evasive and combat maneuvers, just went against everything he trained for as a USAF aviator.

And for a fighter jock that was rigorously taught to fly aggressively and constantly be on the attack, just flying completely still for too long without doing anything pretty much equated to an explosive death in the hands of opposing forces.

On a more unrelated matter though, he prayed to all the gods he could think of that he didn't need to cough up $200 million dollars as reimbursement for this plane, which he knew deep in his heart was eventually not going to survive this particular encounter unscathed.

If he actually manages to survive in the next thirty minutes, that is.

But he was still doing it anyway. Because somewhere down the line, he lost a few of his precious and already fleeting brain cells; which was probably the result of not having ate that many nutritious vegetables when he was a kid, or the fact that he hit his head so hard and so many damn times that he ultimately lost count.

Whatever the hell it was, he was paying for it now.

Out of all the pilots in the whole wide _friggin'_ world, why did it have to be him?

Why did this have to happen now? Now, out of all times.

Out of thousands upon thousands of diverse possibilities he could think of, for this scenario to occur, and it just so happened to conveniently take place with him being in this exact location and at the exact same time.

Naturally, he already knew his luck was bad—Alaska was proof enough of that as it is—but he didn't know it was going to be _this_ bad somewhere down the line.

" _Warning: ETA to omnic probable air detection range, fifteen seconds. Fourteen, thirteen…"_

Oh, who the hell was he trying to kid?

He was supremely scared shitless, and he obviously didn't want to die. Plain and simple.

God in fucking heaven, he really didn't want to die right now.

There was so much of the world he hasn't even seen and experienced yet, damn it; and now he was gonna have his sorry ass blown off before he could even have a chance to try it all out.

"— _nine, eight, seven…."_

For Christ's sake, he doesn't even know what it feels like to be in the arms of a loving woman, nor has he ever tried fondly kissing what he can only imagine were said woman's luscious lips.

Yeah, he almost couldn't believe it himself either.

Here he was, a young and hot-blooded eighteen-year-old fighter pilot in the world's most dominant air force, meticulously trained in all the ways of flying, dogfighting, and the ever-changing traditions in the art of aerial warfare.

And he still hasn't even gotten it on with a beautiful woman up till now.

Morbidly speaking, he was sort of glad his parents were already gone and had already resided in the afterlife; because more than likely, they undoubtedly would've given him holy hell for not having dated someone special at this crucial point in his life, especially in the case of his dad. Most especially his dad.

Depressing as it was, his only…outlook, regarding that subject, only limited to viewing cheesy romantic comedies, a few porn vids here and there, and his sad imaginations; whereas he could only dream as to how soft it would probably be if he was actually lucky enough to gently press his lips against this imaginary woman's own.

Or how warm she would most likely be if she hugs him so damn tightly, that he was actually going to sigh in contentment from the comforting embrace.

Eighteen-years-old, kick-ass fighter jock, and he was most likely going to die a virgin.

Some fucking ace he was.

"— _two, one."_ His VA said with a sense of dread and finality, making him flinch after that. _"Warning: now entering omnic probable air detection range._

" _Warning,"_ it went on without interruption, _"probability of hostile UCAV intercept at eighty-seven percent, hostile surface-to-air missile launch threat at eighty-one percent, groundside triple-A threat at seventy-three percent. Danger, operating environment now extremely hostile. Please reroute immediately."_

There was no turning back now.

Whilst maintaining formation with the transport and keeping both his altitude and airspeed constant, he mentally braced himself for the inevitable. The only thing he could do to keep his nerves from breaking right this minute was to glue his eyes towards his passive sensor display panel, and pray.

Even though he wasn't that much of a practicing Christian, and had honestly thought that the hardcore believers he did know personally were complete dicks and total hypocrites.

His bitching on religion aside, they really weren't kidding about the whole, 'no atheists in foxholes' thing.

And even when he already knew this much, life really did have its weird moments sometimes.

* * *

It took him about eleven and a half minutes and several dozen klicks deeper into enemy territory before he came to the realization that something wasn't right.

Even though he was currently wound like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap at a moment's notice—whether be it from distant thunder or his instruments just plainly going off—there was just that gnawing feeling that something just seemed…off, somehow.

For one thing, his threat receivers weren't blaring with the looming warnings of an omnic UCAV's radar locking unto his bird, which was what he dreaded most the instant they breached hostile airspace; and his VA hadn't sound off about any IR or electro-optical missiles screaming up his way. Ditto on groundside SAM and triple-A emplacements.

At this point in time, he'd half-expected himself to get shot down by now. And the fact that a missile hadn't blindsided him right this particular moment was unusually more surprising than anything.

Hell, it was truly starting to unnerve him even more at how eerily quiet this sector was; when according to the intel estimates he got an hour or so ago, this area was deemed extremely hot, and was to be avoided at all cost.

Lest anyone wanted an early grave.

And yet here were two not-so-subtle aircraft, just casually flying straight and true like it was no one's business and without any care in the world—correction, he actually cared a helluva whole lot.

Although, just flying normally in supremely contested airspace like it was a standard routine flight, was a whole new thing entirely for the likes of him. How was this even remotely possible?

" _Mister Punisher,"_ Two-Kilo called to him via their shared freq out of a sudden, making him jump out of his seat from his excess vigilance, _"our transport's going to land momentarily up ahead. Can you please cover us?"_

Overwatch.

Right, it started to make sense now!

In hindsight, it probably explained why there were all so calm about this whole stupid thing to begin with.

Good Lord, now he was actually scared _and_ curious. How were they actually doing this?

It certainly didn't have anything to do with their aircraft, that was obvious. The damned thing looked dated as all hell and had clearly seen better days, so he was ruling out their method of transportation as the key to this whole questionable endeavor.

Electronic sensor manipulation, then? Probably doing a subtle spoofing of their long-range and comprehensive defense network beforehand, by hijacking its command programming with a combination of advanced cyberwarfare suites and some super-secret Overwatch tech thrown into the mix?

Or maybe even some sort of never-before-seen hyperspectral imaging jammer, that masked their signature in both ends of the EM spectrum from any kind of optics?

Or perhaps maybe even a combination of those two variable solutions?

Just thinking about it, the list was practically friggin' endless.

As much as he may have given that organization a lot of shit over the years, for being a fickle cesspool of pampered prima donnas from all corners of the world, he never really disrespected their highly-skilled technological prowess in near-countless fields.

And now, seeing how that tech was helping them first-hand, was slowly starting melt away some of his preconceptions about the international peacekeeping force, it's ostentatious intentions, and its numerous, but odd-job members. Somewhat.

He still thought they were overrated, though.

" _Hello? Mister Punisher?"_

"What?" He curtly replied.

" _We're touching down in about twenty seconds. Can you please cover us as we disembark?"_

"I will, don't worry." He assured them, tone slightly composed as he started to break formation and tilted his nose upwards to increase his altitude and distance. "Just hurry the hell up, I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to."

" _That's understandable, Mister Punisher. Just give us ten minutes, and we'll shut these rogue omnics down for good."_

"Yeah, sure thing."

There was no mistaking it, he was still quite terrified actually; with him and his newfound UN buddies being so deeply behind enemy-controlled lines that friendly forces would not reach them in time to assist, should this covert incursion turn south really damn quick.

On the other hand, was he going to let it stop him from essentially doing his job of trying to look after them?

Oh, hell no.

He may be scared, yes (pucker factor of above twelve) but at the end of the day he was still a commissioned officer and fighter pilot of the United States Air Force. And he still had a job to do, regardless of his ever-growing distress and his half-assed reasons for being a pilot in the first place.

Plus, if he did end up making a complete ass out of himself _before_ he punches out, five generations of his family's ancestors would most definitely give him shit for all eternity.

That really wasn't something he was looking forward to.

It didn't take long before the Overwatch transport, which he finally guessed was a Chinese-made Xi'an Y-32 tactical transport—or a variant of it, without any visible weaponry—had descended further down in the middle of a grassy field, flaring its wing-enclosed ducted turbofans for a textbook landing. Which it gracefully did, moments later.

Whoever was driving that almost thirty-year-old bird wasn't half-bad.

Twitching his flight stick left and adjusting his overall speed via the wall-mounted throttle, he banked his FA-1 forty-five degrees, until his wing was pointed parallel to the transport's location on the ground, where he slightly pulled on the stick back afterwards to commence a wide pylon turn; attentively circling around them counter-clockwise in an oval racetrack pattern.

"Alright Two-Kilo, I'm proceeding into holding pattern." He reported as he faced left, where his banked fighter was affording him decent visibility to the UN peacekeepers and the lush green surface below. "I got visual on your pos at this time—I mean, position." He caught himself, momentarily forgetting that he was talking to a civilian.

It still took some getting used to.

" _We see you, Mister Punisher. We're going to exit our transport now. Please give us a moment…"_

By way of his fighter's numerous high-resolution cameras, and its crystal clear vid-feed streaming directly through his cockpit's tertiary LCD display panel, he could see the Overwatch transport's ramp gradually opening up—

—and was immediately rewarded to a view of a hulking figure, in equally bulky, but very intricate armor swiftly exiting the parked bird, sporting a shimmering blue energy barrier that was materializing out of its arm; with the massive figure possessing nimbleness he didn't even know was the least bit conceivable, in something that looked so large and ungainly.

The person—or thing—must be _at_ _least_ 7'4", and probably weighed a metric fucking ton. The massive SOB was also carrying a massive war hammer, with a pair of rocket motors on the other-side, one-handed.

He almost didn't recognize the armored monstrosity at a glance, and it took him quite a few seconds to thoroughly look at the goliath before he eventually realized who it truly was.

Or, more technically, everyone that was living on this here blue planet knew exactly who that certain person was. Given how his—and the other Overwatch agents' faces—were constantly plastered everywhere, in all nooks and crannies known to man, that either had a functioning screen or a pretty solid surface. For nearly twenty-five years straight.

At some point, he knew his younger self would've no doubt gush rather uncontrollably right this exact second, at the chance of actually seeing Overwatch agents up close and in action.

As for that that behemoth's name, though, it was—was….

...

…

…

…

…

Well, shit. It would seem that he completely forgot.

What in the hell _was_ that prissy Kraut's name again?

He could've sworn he knew it at some point, back when he was still a little kid maybe, and his folks were still alive and breathing.

And right now, he felt like he had that Kraut's name at just the tip of his tongue, too.

It went somewhere along the lines of…

'Ray-something Willie', maybe?

It was rather German-sounding, obviously, and probably complicated as all hell to spell.

Whatever his name was though, it really didn't matter all that much to him.

All he knew for certain was that the guy was huge, even without him being thoroughly encased in that ancient-looking and kick-ass armor of his, that resembled the medieval crusaders of old. But other than that, there really wasn't anything else that was worth remembering that would've stuck to his eight-year-old self at the time.

Though the only other Overwatch agents he did know much, whose names and faces he _could_ actuallyrecall up until this point, were only those belonging to Jack Morrison, Gabriel Reyes, and that of Ana Amari, the organization's leading founders. The first two were easy enough to remember, partly because they used to be in the service, same as him; with Morrison being a former PJ and fellow airman in the Air Force, and Reyes a Force Recon jarhead in the Corps.

But the last one though, Amari, was…well, for lack of a better sounding and more technical term, extremely fucking hot back in the day.

On second thought, she still is actually.

And he vividly reminisced having this sizeable poster of her in his old room, when he was in his formative pre-teen years. Where she was posing from behind, and turning her head to face the camera; her eye with that wicked tattoo looking sharp as a tack, sniper rifle in hand, and her combat harness just tightly pressing against her lean and shapely derri—

" _Alright, Mister Punisher, we're setting up now."_

"Wha—come again?"

" _I said we're setting up right now."_ Two-Kilo reiterated with his usual deep and polite voice, which then shifted tone. _"Are you okay, Mister Punisher? Because if you're having problems with your point-to-point communications link, I'll be more than happy to assist you—"_

"No, no thank you." He quickly replied, all those overly stimulating thoughts of one attractive middle-aged sniper being hastily cleared away, along with his nonexistent throat hitches. "Everything's fine, don't sweat it."

" _Are you sure? Because it's no trou—"_

"I am _completely_ fine." He asserted. "No problems at all."

" _Well, if you say so. Anyway, we'll be done momentarily."_

"Wait, what?" He looked at his display again and tried to really focus, this time without any unexpected and really enticing thoughts of a certain woman's supremely fit backside.

It looked as if the rest of the German Godzilla's team had already finished vacating their transport—probably having done it beforehand when he was still stuck trying to remember that Kraut's hard-to-remember full name, and also his childhood crush—and had just finished setting up shop at the moment, just a block or two away northwest from their inactive Y-32 transport's position.

Damn, they moved fast. How'd they get there so quick?

Was he really so out of it, that he completely failed to notice a team of some overly conspicuous Overwatch agents in the middle of the Korean countryside?

That was—

Yeah…

More than likely, that was probably the case.

In his defense, he was tremendously stressed out and confused, due in part to him operating in a clearly hostile combat environment and his libido's brief burst of activity respectively. With his thoughts regarding the latter as something that was completely normal and nothing to be ashamed of, and heedless of his present circumstances.

In any case, that was what he told himself.

Going back to his panel, he saw that the Overwatch team, a typical six-man element, had at present spread out considerably; majority of them, including the gigantic Kraut along with four other nondescript riflemen, fanned out to form an outward crescent-shaped defensive perimeter to keep watch on that good-sized armored monkey and another plain guy, who were setting up some tall, complicated-looking device pointedly arranged to do something that was beneath the ground.

What the hell was even under there? As much as he knew, there was nothing he could see that was really worth noting in this particular grid—other than the fact that for some reason this place was labeled hostile by the brass—and the only thing he _did_ catch sight of in this area were a lot of lofty trees, picturesque mountains shrouded with foliage, and intermittent open fields in the surrounding valleys with untouched meadows like the ones the Overwatch guys had landed themselves in.

And no omnics whatsoever, visible or otherwise, within two square kilometers.

Just a whole lot of risk for pretty much nothing of value or importance, which he thought was…odd, considering what the stakes here were.

So, what he really wanted to know was, what was so damned important about this seemingly desolate place? And why was it worth crossing over into this part of omnic-controlled ground?

On any other given day, he would've been his annoying and somewhat amiable self, and just ask people point-blank to get the answers that he so evidently needed; as he usually did with civilians, fellow USAF airmen, and other military service members alike.

However, when it came to individuals working within a wide-reaching supranational organization, that was not bound by any sovereign country's will or laws whatsoever, and only answered directly towards the command of select members residing in the UN Security Council?

Perplexingly, he didn't even know where to start.

These guys obviously knew something he didn't. And he desperately wanted to know even just a tiny glimpse of whatever the hell is it they were doing, and why it was relevant to the present situation at hand.

" _Mister Punisher, primary detonation charge is set."_ His comms lit-up with Two-Kilo's distinct and already well-known voice. _"We're fixing up the secondary EMP payload even as we speak. Please bear with us for just a few more moments."_

"Roger." He replied uninterestingly, eyes still stuck to his display panel showing the live feed; where he saw the huge monkey from earlier setting up another piece of gear, then lifting the sizeable component of whatever-the-hell-it-was that apparently had something to do with multi-staged explosives and electromagnetic pulse detonatio—

Wait.

He looked at the display even more closely.

Was that a—

His brain froze, as something in the LCD panel downright stopped every thought process residing within the confines of his mind; with his eyes widening in sheer disbelief, as sobering comprehension finally came down to him like a huge crashing tidal wave.

There.

Right friggin' there, just a dozen or two meters behind the Kraut and the accompanying protective detail facing the tree line across them, and just right next to the guy still setting up the tall device, was a monkey.

He shook his head a few times to see if he was seeing things, and when he finally realized he wasn't, he looked at the screen even more keenly than usual.

An honest-to-God monkey, wearing gleaming white armor and carrying that heavy-looking component for their device that was impossible for a single man to carry, but it was effortlessly lugging one-handed anyway.

There was an _actual_ mammal walking and working, in a hot combat zone no less, accompanied by human soldiers and being treated as if it was one of them! And that it didn't seem to bother them that there was an animal amongst them, that _barely_ had any sentience of any kind. Here, out of all places.

And it had a jetpack, too. An actual jetpack with miniature vectored nozzles underneath the propulsion unit's main housing, which was bolted directly unto the back of the monkey's armored torso piece.

Holy shit.

So those rumors he heard two months ago from the REMFs were actually true, then. That Overwatch really _did_ have a simian-looking SOB working within their ranks, and that no one working in the organization's upper echelons didn't thought it the least bit disturbing or alarming.

This was almost too hard to believe, and yet the monkey was there right before his very eyes. Or LCD screen, if he was going to be more honest about it.

The implications of militarizing mammals for combat use, even against omnics alone was—

And—good God…was that—was it…was it actually wearing _glasses_?

Out of nowhere, and as if it knew it was being thoroughly watched, the monkey—who was hauling the heavy part easily over its massive shoulder—stopped what he was doing for the briefest of moments, craned his head upwards to the sky to look at his circling fighter, then raised its free hand to pleasantly wave at him.

" _Uh, hello there."_

His throat dried damn-near instantaneously.

It…it just talked. Good God…

It fucking talked to him! And weirdly enough, it had the same voice as Two-Kilo's for some ungodly reason.

Unless his point-of-contact to the Overwatch team all along was— _noooooo._

No, that wasn't it!

Christ Almighty, that didn't make actual sense at all!

Then again…

Does…does that mean he was talking to a _fucking monkey this entire time?_ And he didn't even know about it?

The massive ape—Lord knew how, because he sure as hell didn't—spoke like a completely normal person, and he totally didn't notice at all because it sounded so damn natural and ordinary.

No noticeable inflections on its voice, no weird vibe or distinct accents of any kind that would give way to the otherworldly fact that he was talking to a primate. A primate that sounded like he was talking to someone that was born to a loving family in the Midwest, and not in some creepy-ass laboratory somewhere in the bowels of a mad scientist's evil lair.

He shuddered at thought at what these people were truly capable of, all while trying to wrap his head around the fact that there really _was_ an armored monkey roaming around in a battlefield, _and_ that it could also talk.

It almost sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. It might as well be.

And if it could talk, think, and do stuff on its own accord…then does it mean that this particular ape had actually achieved human-level sentience?

Who the hell were they, and what made them decide to play God with the natural order of things?

He lost count on how many times he blamed the Lord Almighty for his shitty luck, and for being assigned to this even more shitty escort mission.

He stopped looking at the display panel showing the monkey and its team, altogether.

"You're…you can talk."

" _I beg your pardon?"_

"You're talking right now."

" _Oh. Um,"_ Two-Kilo—no wait, the monkey—spoke with a confused tone. And the fact that what it was doing right now, which was brimming with such sheer humanity, was making him freak out even more at how human the gesture was. _"I suppose I am."_

"How…?" He asked in audible disbelief. "How is this even real…?"

" _The…vocal folds modulating the flow of air being expelled in the lungs during phonation, perhaps?"_

"What?"

" _Vocal chords."_ The monkey said matter-of-factly. _"You asked how, right? They stretch horizontally and vertically across the larynx, causing vibrations that are responsible for recognizable human speech, singing, and all sorts of vocal communications, which in turn are controlled via the vagus nerve."_

"What…?" He hesitantly asked again a second time, not knowing what to say.

" _It's actually all quite fascinating once you think about it, really. How something so small can drastically be responsible for—"_

But, before he was going to be involuntarily subjected to a lecture, regarding the wonders of the vocal cords' wide-ranging utility in all aspects of human life, his helmet's built-in speakers suddenly rang out an incessant alarm about unknown contacts being picked up on his instruments.

And when he moved his eyes to the passive sensor display to see what was going on, his blood ran cold a second later.


	4. Wild Melee

There.

Right there were four bogeys in total, presently coming their way.

Four unidentified contacts that his FA-1's passive sensor array—which was an interconnected system of high-resolution cameras, IR optics and other spectral imaging devices—had just recently spotted three dozen klicks away, due south-south-west of his current position.

He couldn't get an exact fix as to who and what they are at the moment, mostly because they were just really tiny and faraway dots on his screen, but his instruments had barely caught a whiff of their approach via a multitude of ways: mostly consisting of the contacts' engines spewing out discernible heat emissions, plain-old visual tracking of their movements, and those whisper thin contrails now leaving a long-ass but barely visible trail, courtesy of said hot engines being chilled by the frigid high-altitude air.

And right now, those four bogeys were split in two pairs. With the first element neatly cruising near the ground at less than 5,000 feet, while flying perfectly close together in a two-ship formation; whereas the second duo was hanging a tad bit back, high up in the air at an elevation of about 23,000 feet AGL, give or take, looking after the first section that was scouring the deck below, while they in turn guarded them and the surrounding skies from their perch above.

A textbook force protection tactic, he realized, straight out of an operations playbook.

Or, as far as he knew, from a human one at least.

As it stands, he didn't know whether these guys coming in were either friendlies or hostiles. But seeing as the rest of his squadron was already on the precipice of near-total annihilation, and the odds clearly _not_ in their favor, he was more than willing to bet three months of his 'meh' pay that those contacts were leaning more on the latter category. Which, in this case, meant that those incoming bogeys—quite possibly omnic UCAVs, more or less—were going to be anything but friendly.

Four probable bandits, three dozen clicks and closing, their speed constant at 400 knots in varying altitudes. They probably haven't spotted him and the UN guys yet, since their flight vector wasn't immediately pointed at his approximate direction, but it was just almost certainly close enough for that probable enemy patrol to see them when the time comes, albeit a little later.

Not that it would matter anyway, because they were still going to get spotted in the end.

Nevertheless, he did not like his chances.

One of him, against four of them? On a good day he could probably take them on without so much as a fuss, sure.

Except that it was usually together with other assets, working in concert with him to get the job done…and not exactly taking them all at once, at the same time. Plus, the fact remained that he was still severely outnumbered, as well as being all by his lonesome. Practically speaking, he could probably take out one…hopefully maybe even two on the first pass—and bag another one, if he was _really_ lucky—but anything more than that was going to be insanely difficult, even for the likes of him.

His only saving grace is that, for a short time, he had the element of surprise…somewhat, and he could briefly set the initial tempo in the beginning of their upcoming engagement. And sadly not much else after that.

As for finishing it on his terms, though…

That would probably be too much to ask.

Therefore, instead of taking them all out entirely from a distance and with overwhelming firepower as is the norm, his intention now was to buy the guys on the ground just enough time to finish their thing, whatever the hell it was, and get them to exfil ASAFP the moment they were done.

That might probably work—no, it _has_ to work.

Plus, as much as he hated to admit it, these Overwatch agents were possibly their last hope in him and the rest of his fellow USAF pilots getting out of here alive, so there is that.

"Yo, Monkey—"

"… _excuse me?"_

"—I mean Two-Kilo," he rectified his slip of the tongue, immediately noting the simian's slight indignation. Accidentally pissing it off was almost becoming second-nature to him, "how long until you guys are finished?"

" _About four or five minutes, perhaps? We have some unexpected hiccups on our end, but it shouldn't be too much for us to handle."_

"Well," he said as he kept a watchful eye on the approaching bogeys, "you're gonna have to haul ass outta there PDQ, buddy."

" _Um, come again?"_

Without preamble, he quickly told them about the impending threat.

" _Hmmm…."_ The monkey hummed in a contemplative tone for a while, before he finally spoke afterwards. _"That's…really problematic."_

He scoffed at that painfully obvious statement.

"That's one way to put it."

" _How much time do we have?"_

"I dunno, three…three and a half minutes, maybe? Could be even less than that."

" _I see, I see…" The_ Overwatch Ape stated in a somber, but still retaining that signature polite tone. _"Uh, Mister Punisher?"_

"What?"

" _Can…would you mind terribly if I ask you for a favor?"_

He already knew where this was headed, but he kept himself quiet about it anyway.

"What is it?"

" _I know this may be too much to ask of you, seeing as we don't really know each other all that well, and the risks involved for such an undertaking are extremely high given the conditions, but…can you please buy us some more time?"_

There it was, just as he anticipated.

Nonetheless, for some reason, he felt a bit…what was the word…confounded, perhaps? Bewildered…?

Not at the actual request, though, that was normal no matter what the circumstances were; but it was the _way_ that the guy— _monkey_ —had articulated the request towards him.

He was so used to explicit commands and direct orders from his superiors that were _way_ above his own pay grade, that the sheer politeness and consideration he was receiving from the Overwatch ape was getting to him, and making him feel all sorts of strange. An unexpectedly humorous, yet entirely predictable byproduct of him being a pilot in the military, no doubt.

Be that as it may though, Two-Kilo—being the actual simian that he/it is—was the pleasantest dude he ever had the privilege of speaking with.

And even when he obviously had the right say no to the ape, or to plain tell this Overwatch agent to go straight to hell (since gorilla man was just asking _instead_ of ordering him, even though Overwatch agents had the UN-mandated charter to do whatever shit they deemed was fit to global security) in the end he still wanted to accept the task nonetheless. As to why he was willingly going to do it, however, he still hadn't quite figured it out himself.

Imagine that, he was going out of his way to help a _monkey,_ who—for reasons completely unknown—got him unexpectedly this far in a situation where one was almost immediately killed.

He mentally shook his head.

"How much time do you guys need?"

" _Probably ten, twelve minutes at most. I think."_

"Alright, that's not too unreasonable, I guess. I'll see what I can do." He replied as he broke off his overhead holding pattern, increasing his overall airspeed as he distanced himself away from the Overwatch agents and flew towards the general direction of the bogeys for an intercept. "If you don't hear from me by then, just get the hell out of here and don't look back. Got it?"

" _Understood, and you have our utmost gratitude, Mister Punisher."_

"Uh huh."

" _Oh, and Mister Punisher? There's actually one more thing…"_

"Yeah?"

" _Good luck…and, please try to be safe."_

It took him a grand total of ten seconds before his brain successfully comprehended that unforeseen statement.

What the hell was—?

Before he could even form a coherent reply in his head, their shared point-to-point comms link was suddenly shut off by the other party, leaving him flabbergasted in trying to find anything as a way to respond to that particular sentiment.

On the other hand, what was this weird commotion flailing around his gut?

If he were to sum up his feelings earlier regarding his current predicament, he'd probably somewhat describe it as an incomprehensible smorgasbord of pessimism: with everything ranging from unbridled fear, righteous outrage, brimming uncertainty, with just a teeny bit of interest, and even a dash of hopeless futility thrown into the mix while he was at it.

Pretty much resulting in him being an uneasy and damn-near useless wreck, if he were to honestly sum it all up.

But right now?

Now it…it didn't really bother him as greatly as it did anymore, as something unexpectedly took some of the edge off.

He didn't entirely know what to make of it, but for all intents and purposes…was he actually feeling grateful for the concern?

Coming from a _monkey_ , no less?

Granted, it wasn't really much of an impetus (seeing as he was still feeling the leftover roller coaster of adverse emotions), and it certainly didn't make for a helluva lot of sense; except that for him, it just felt…adequate, so to speak.

Just enough to get him going in finding some newborn resolve, to _actually_ want tosucceed this time, as much as he possibly could, instead of just doing something—anything!—before he permanently punched his ticket outta here and directly into the next life.

Again, it wasn't much. But then again, it was something.

Goddamn.

A walking-talking sentient gorilla, the likes of which he and no other normal human being on Earth has ever encountered before (with the initial shock and novelty from seeing/talking to it firsthand having already worn off… to a certain degree), actually gave him a good enough pep-talk to get his head straight out of his metaphorical ass.

For all he knew, the world as he knew it was probably going to end after all this. Or, on the contrary, maybe not. Hell, who knows.

Although, as motivations come and go, it was...not all that bad, actually.

* * *

Not soon after he parted company with his erstwhile Overwatch colleagues, he increased his cruising altitude to 29,000 feet. At the moment, his fighter was just slightly in-between an ample amount of widely spread cirrocumulus clouds that he found mere minutes ago, providing him just enough concealment to help mask his intercept vector towards the possible omnic UCAV patrol; all while steadily dashing through open skies at 550 knots, just nearly close enough for him to easily break the sound barrier if he so wished.

His onboard passive sensors had pegged the approaching bogeys on a relatively straight course northbound towards him, bearing two-zero-four at 400 knots, and their varied altitudes were still locked at approximately 4,500 and 23,000 feet respectively; pretty much the same course, speed and elevation from what he had observed previously since he first detected them.

Not that any changes on either one of those readings would've given him something to look forward to. In fact, this was basically very good news for him, because it meant that: a) those contacts haven't spotted him and the Overwatch team yet, and were just conducting a normal patrol based on what they thought they saw, or what their sensor readings had detected beforehand, and; b) for a limited time only, these bogeys have no idea where he was and what exactly to expect, giving a definite advantage when commencing a first-strike on a time and place of his own choosing.

For once, ever since he took off from the ground to venture further into South Korean airspace—be it friendly or otherwise—things were finally starting to go his way.

And if it weren't for the fact that he was totally outnumbered, obviously outgunned, and the rest of his fellow fighter jocks gradually being finished off one at a time by murderous gearheads, he probably would've been excited at the prospect of blasting hostile targets out the sky with near-impunity.

Well…okay, maybe he was a _little_ excited.

Visual confirmation of the incoming bogeys was all but certain now as the distance between him and them was decreasing dramatically, by way of both opposing fighter groups (or in his case, lack thereof) quickly closing the gap with the other through their considerable head-on velocities.

He had more than enough cloud cover to screen his fighter's advance, right up until the moment of his calculated ambush, and he was supremely confident that those oncoming contacts would find it next to impossible to spot him from his well-positioned perch up above; and on the off-chance that they astonishingly did detect something before he could shoot them down, they would undoubtedly have considerable difficulty in precisely spotting his grey-colored FA-1 blending seamlessly into the similarly tinted haze of condensed water vapor.

With only moments to spare before the inevitable clash, he quickly tapped a few commands on his main touchscreen interface to do a brief, but thorough rundown on all of his aircraft's relevant functions and systems, just to be on the safe side. The last thing he needed was a life-threatening and catastrophic system failure in the middle of a dogfight.

A checklist on the screen started showing relevant points of interest for him to take notice, beginning with his plane's intelligent flight control systems, which showed that it was fine and operating within acceptably nominal levels; the same went with his FNX turbofan engines, advanced avionics package, his comms systems, the Link 18 tactical data-link, and also his overall fuel state (which showed he still had 13,110 pounds of JP-9 left, just about 55% shy of his fighter's total fuel capacity).

There was some slight damage on the left forward-swept wing of his FA-1, just sandwiched between the flap and the aileron near the tip of said wing (thanks to his one-on-one melee with that pursuing UCAV beforehand) but the damage didn't adversely affect his plane's flight control surfaces—at least, not in the way that he could notice—so he assumed it was only superficial in nature. Aside from that, the rest of the airframe seemed fine.

In short, his aircraft's performance was operating as much as can be expected under these conditions. Which was all well and good, really.

But what he really wanted more right this instant was the condition of his fighter's offensive armament, particularly the built-in 30mm cannon imbedded inside his plane's left wing root, and his payload of different missiles attached to various hardpoints just below the aircraft's hull.

Which was promptly received seconds later, by way of a quick beep and a list shown on the screen attached with green checkmarks, signifying that the aircraft-wide diagnostics was finally done; indicating that everything regarding his bird's systems, inside and out, was operational and good to go…

…including all his onboard weaponry of four heat-seeking and three radar-guided missiles, along with three hundred and ninety-two cannon rounds.

That made him give out half a smile. He was more or less ready for this semi-suicide mission.

And weirdly enough, he was oddly calm about it…

Might probably change in a minute or five.

* * *

Visual contact with the bogeys—now positively identified as omnic mark-three UCAVs—was successfully established at approximately 1357 Local Time.

The two pairs of confirmed hostile bandits, which were vastly separated by a substantial vertical distance, had finally passed below his own fighter and still headed northbound. Completely unaware that he was vigilantly observing them from above his cloud-covered position, as they sped past him in the opposite direction.

He took one last quick calming breath and exhaled slowly.

Time for him to give these gearheads a taste of their very own medicine.

Jerking his flight stick and depressing the pedal underneath his left foot, he rolled his FA-1 left ninety degrees and then banked downwards to do a descending U-turn, eventually breaking out of his concealed cover as he increased power to catch up to the unsuspecting pair of omnic aircraft guarding the skies.

His helmet's heads-up display automatically reconfigured itself to a tactical combat setting once his aircraft was within weapons range; and already he was resolutely trailing the targets, as he closed in and trained his HUD's pipper on them while arming the heat-seeking missiles attached underneath his wings.

In the bat of an eye, a distinct warbling tone began playing in his helmet's speakers, by means of his IR missiles' imaging seekers beginning to dynamically scan the sky in front of it for anything that was standing out remotely, in contrast to the cold high-altitude air; be it from a titanium composite airframe warming up due to constant airflow friction—or noticeable temperatures emanating from a turbofan engine. Didn't take long before that warbling tone transformed into a comforting and constant beep when the IR seekers ultimately locked onto two noticeable heat signatures.

" _Lock."_ His VA reported.

A textbook angle of zero, perfectly right behind the omnic pair's blazing tailpipes.

With complete absence of difficulty whatsoever, he quickly depressed the trigger on his flight stick twice.

Two nine-foot long AIM-193 missiles below his wings simultaneously dropped from their respective hardpoints, and streaked brightly a millisecond later as their onboard rocket motors surged them forward at 3087 kilometers per hour; trailing white smoke quickly putting considerable distance between the ordnance and him.

The tallied bandits were roughly about four kilometers away, plus or minus a few dozen meters, and the missiles instantly traversed the entire gap separating them in four and a half seconds.

He noticed the tell-tale sign of flares being arbitrarily chucked by the other party once his launch was detected, in the hopes of veering the IR missiles off-course and off-target, but by then it was already too late.

The first missile reached the right-side UCAV, and flew just right outside its engine exhaust when it went off spectacularly with a slightly muted bang. Annular blast fragmentation from the missile's payload of ductile cylindrical steel rods horizontally sheared the hostile aircraft in two, and the forward section was catapulted forward as the rear half detonated in a sizeable secondary explosion of greasy orange and black smoke.

What was left of the wreck was tumbling uncontrollably back towards the earth, awaiting a very unceremonious crash.

His chest bristled with unspoken pride.

Splash two gearhead UCAVs.

As for the second missile, however, it—

"Oh, _come_ on!"

—it completely zipped past, and overshot the surviving bandit by two meters.

"You've gotta be kidding!"

He very nearly couldn't come to terms with it, just as his newfound pride disappeared in a second. Whether it was by blind luck or otherwise, he couldn't tell. But…

The second missile…it missed!

Which didn't make a lot of sense since he had a solid lock from a clearly observable and _hard-to-miss_ point of contact, just less than five klicks out from launch to interception, so his Pk (kill probability) should've been _at least_ over 90%.

And yet the goddamned thing decided all of a sudden to _fucking_ miss just because!

That insanely providential fucker.

It was probably going to be a waste of his already dwindling time to assess _why_ it missed when it shouldn't have, so he just let it go with a grit of his teeth.

The lone surviving UCAV, having just realized the rare fluke that was his near-miss, immediately took advantage of his unexpected blunder and promptly hurtled itself upwards in a ridiculously upright angle, into higher altitudes and in full burner.

Clearly this was just fate screwing with him at this point, because _of course_ something like this just _had_ to happen eventually. Otherwise it would've been too fair and too damned easy for him.

His hands unconsciously tightened on their correspondingly-gripped controls.

Even though it was hard, he willed himself to focus on downing this particular bastard, regardless of this unexpected snafu. He promptly stalked close behind, flight stick pulled and throttle pushed as he tilted his own nose skyward and into soaring skies.

The second heat-seeker that missed automatically oriented itself, drastically turning a sharp forty-five degree turn to reacquire its target once more—thanks to his helmet HUD's pipper facing the direction of the bandit and still designating it—and the missile dutifully followed his prior and current commands to track the omnic aircraft and kill it, hopefully without missing the second time around.

More flares were launched from the UCAV's counter-measure dispensers to throw off the pursuing missile like before, but fortunately for him it wasn't going to let go in the foreseeable future, now that it had secured a solid lock. Again.

The familiar sensation of his sternum being pushed inward returned as g-forces from his fighter speeding up held him in place, at the same time his altimeter showed that he was soaring past 40,000 feet and rapidly rising fast; followed shortly thereafter by two sonic booms that were separated only two seconds apart, as both planes broke the sound barrier just mere moments after the other.

The omnic effortlessly rolled itself sideways as it fired off the last of its infrared counter-measures in a dizzying display of fiery flashes, descending back down in sizeable burning trails; and he kept an eagle eye on the missile's fast approach, as it neared the promised land which was this bandit's explosive demise.

But when they reached the near-apogee of their aircrafts' corresponding service ceiling at 53,000 feet, and just when the missile was about to move in decisively for the kill, the UCAV decided to do a complete turnaround by pitching its angle upwards to initiate an insane maneuver he belatedly realized was _supremely_ familiar.

High up in the pinnacle of its climb, the omnic suddenly bled off all of the velocity it had built up the moment it decided to ascend, by doing the aeronautical version of a backflip.

Afterward it stopped in mid-air at an awkward angle, just for the briefest of moments, right before forcing him _and_ the missile to overshoot the UCAV, with his FA-1 fortuitously missing the gearhead by a dozen or so meters as it passed right above his own rising bubble canopy, then righted itself with a quick roll to an even level once the flip was complete, where it smoothly descended back down and rocketed away from him in a seamless transition towards the other direction.

All of which happened in less than fifteen seconds. Barely enough time to register anything else, other than the fact that he completely missed his target _a_ _second time_ now _._ At this stage, feeling more pissed was just about as redundant as it could get.

Naturally, he gave chase with a quick descending turn of his own, diving his aircraft into a steep angle to gain more air speed as he spotted his target trying to distance itself with its accelerating engines and its own momentum.

The second missile that overshot its target _twice_ suddenly dropped like a rock in mid-flight once its solid-fuel propellant ran out, and it made him slowly be aware of a few things once he took his eyes off of the advanced weapon now currently turned expensive paperweight.

Such as there were only two IR missiles left for him to use, and that there were still three immediate targets that needed to be destroyed.

This was…not exactly the most ideal situation he envisioned for an engagement that was supposedly set on his terms.

At best, if he downed this target today with another heat-seeker, that still left him with two more targets and only one AIM-197 remaining—and that's even _if_ the missile he fired doesn't maddeningly miss for a third consecutive time.

And the moment when all of his heat-seekers were going to be inevitably expended, that only left him with the radar-guided missiles to use; and those required him to turn on his active sensors to feed data and directions into it, where it accurately painted his selected targets from afar and then blast them.

Which wasn't all that bad, when he wasn't the least bit concerned in giving himself away. Yet energizing his sensors right now would probably amount to a death sentence, negating whatever it was the monkey had done to hide him from the hostile sensor-net, and most likely zeroing in a shit-ton of hostile UCAVs to permanently write him off once he was in their scope.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

There really was just no winning when it came to them.

Nevertheless, as counter-productive as it was in the long run, he quickly shuffled away all of his worries and concerns in the back of his mind, knowing that he'll eventually cross that bridge when he gets there.

For the time being, there was still an omnic out there that was—as much as he hated to admit it—incredibly and _inhumanly_ good at evading all of his latest efforts in trying to thoroughly kill it, with extreme prejudice.

The gearhead had successfully used the higher elevation it was in earlier to its advantage, converting altitude to unadulterated energy with that insane maneuver it just pulled beforehand, and attaining a wide enough lead in both its rapidity and distance to do whatever it wanted.

A seventy knot and three kilometer lead, to be more exact, slowly widening with each passing second. Which may not seem like much, except it was quite sufficient enough to make his life even more miserable than it already was.

Catching up to it using his speed alone was most certainly out of the question, given that the target's thrust capability was giving out some insane acceleration that his own engines just couldn't replicate. So targeting it while he still had the chance was the only alternative he had left.

On the other hand, every time he had obtained a good enough lock for his missiles, the omnic would just roll away sideways in either direction to throw his aim off, as if it knew it was being targeted, leaving him speculating that this particular omnic aircraft was fitted with infrared missile launch detectors. Although whether or not this was the case, all he noticed was that his neck was already starting to hurt, from having to have to aim his helmet so many times towards the ever evasive target.

His pipper got him another lock on the target for what seemed like the nth time in the past moment or two, and before it could instantly disappear yet again on account of the elusive gearhead, he hurriedly fired off another one of his precious IR missiles—the third one—and watched it whizzed single-mindedly towards the target.

Mere seconds shortly and about a third on the way before the missile was supposed to strike, the UCAV banked a hard downward left turn at full afterburner to evade this particular heat-seeker; undoubtedly computing that if it could successfully dodge the preceding ordnance twice, then it could do the same thing towards this one as well.

The omnic's response to this action was as much as he'd come to assume in advance.

In addition to the supremely radiant heat signature emanating from the omnic's turbofan engines, now maxing out on full power, it was showing him a reallyhuge and hard-to-miss blob on his helmet HUD that could make targeting this bandit with another missile easier, should he be inclined to do so.

Which was exactly what he did.

Just subsequently after the first launch, his fourth and final IR missile leapt from the rails, immediately when he got a solid lock on the large and prominently eye-catching reading on his heads-up display.

With all of his close-range and passive guidance weapons totally spent, all he could do now was watch and hope, as the last two missiles that represented his life and death struggle slash high-stakes gamble sped its way towards its foreseeable end, at three times the speed of sound.

Almost looked as if it was damn-near trekking in slow-motion from where he was, and his impatience of it all was threatening to make him go crazy.

Needless to say, he mentally kept his fingers crossed.

The first of the two missiles screamed forward, but narrowly missed the annoyingly acrobatic UCAV by about a hair (once more _, for the third time_ ) as its laser proximity fuse had somehow failed to register the omnic aircraft's nearby presence; and it rocketed away harmlessly into the horizon, without going back into another preprogrammed attack run like it was supposed to.

All over again, he willed himself to maintain his crumbling calm.

Besides yearning for the complete opposite, he had also expected for this heat-seeker to miss, and ignored the disappointment that followed.

He immediately adjusted his gaze towards the second launched missile.

And was wholly rendered dumbstruck when he witnessed it striking home and true.

The last AIM-197 had detonated off the slippery UCAV's left side, directly above the downward curved wing.

Fragments from the ordnance had considerably torn through all of the section with immense damage; and in an instant, the left wing was snapped clean off of the root fairing that was attached to the fuselage, as extreme air flows from flying in extensive speeds had wrecked it even more so via the perpetual law of fluid dynamics.

He definitely wasn't going to deny feeling a certain amount of satisfaction, watching as everything began to unfold.

The once untouchable omnic, one of its wings brusquely clipped, could no longer sustain powered flight. And having no other means of achieving lift and aerodynamic equilibrium whilst in the air, natural physics had graciously decided to lend a helping hand, and it started spiraling out of control into these near-perfect helixes. Some light smoke had started spewing in the area where the wing was formerly attached to, and thin lines of dark grey had symmetrically surrounded all over the earthbound bandit as if it were beautifully accompanying its final death ringlets.

In all of his years flying, training, and participating in actual combat, never had he seen such a marvelous and more gratifying sight.

This gearhead certainly gave him a good run for his money, that went without saying. Actually, more so than the Russians during his last epic dogfight, and this current victory never tasted so sweet.

He eyed his passive sensor display to look for the last pair of targets.

They were most definitely next on his shit-list, and it was about high time for them to accompany their recently deceased brethren into—wait, what in the…

…

…

…

No.

No, no, no, no, _noooo!_

"Fuck…" The word instantly drawled out of his lips from sheer subconscious thought, not even fully realizing that he actually said it out loud as his eyes unwaveringly looked at the LCD panel.

The same exact panel now completely devoid of any significant passive readings. Of any kind.

Including those belonging to the last two omnic UCAVs he was supposed to kill.

He was having a hard time processing this sequence of events, and his feeling of elation had vanished just as quickly as it appeared, until there was nothing left but confusion and a helluva lot of blanks, figurative or otherwise.

They were gone, really gone.

The vacant screen was proof enough of that, so he wasn't seeing necessarily things. Wherever they may be headed, the one thing he was most certain of was that they were now out of his passive sensor range.

There were so many questions swirling at the top of his head.

What the hell even happened?

Where the hell were they at? And more importantly, how in the hell could he have missed something so insanely important?

Damn it!

No matter how hard he tried wrapping his head around all this, it still didn't really make any sense.

And although his mind was scrambling to get some clear answers, he knew well-enough from practical knowledge that the omnics can't just disappear without a fucking trace!

No one was that good, especially not some calculating bunch of inhuman bastards.

Everyone had their own set of weaknesses, him included, and those UCAVs' shitty sensors were a prime example of that.

Besides, if it weren't for that devious gearhead earlier needing to be taken out with not one, not two, but _three_ of his IR missiles, he probably would've caught up with the other pair by now, then blast them out of the sky with plenty enough time to spare.

Instead, God knew why, not only did it _not_ die as easily as he would've wanted—even though he technically had about every known advantage in the friggin' book—it took him a majority of his close-ranged ordnance to take down that annoying prick, and that's right after it was leading him on to a wild and not-so-merry goose chase all over the goddamn peninsula like so—

"Oh, my God…" He breathed out in a panicked whisper, at the same time as awareness ultimately began to flood in.

Goose chase.

Son of a bitch.

That gearhead played him, and it played him _good_.

Like he was some FNG straight out of advanced flight training, thinking that he could take on the whole entire world just because he finally knew how to fly something other than a trainer.

That not might've been true in his case, but for this one time it might as well be.

And to think he had been more than willing to participate along with it, because he was a total fucking idiot who didn't even think that this happening was a possibility. Christ, could he have been any more stupid?

Of course it was going to lure him away! It already knew it was going to die sooner or later, so it did the next best and logical thing, by drawing him away from his other 'bot buddies and buying them just enough time to complete their mission.

The mission, in this instance, was stopping the Overwatch monkey and company from completing theirs.

And he did not see this coming. At all. Because, again, he was a fucking idiot.

"Fuck!" He screamed in anger, venting most of his unbridled frustrations in that one commonly used expletive, all while yelling it in many variations for a good ten seconds before he was mostly satisfied from his immature display of irritation.

As much as he loathed to acknowledge it himself, there was still a lot of things he needed to learn.

And no amount of training beforehand could ever change that fact.

When all that was done, he then tried his best to keep a somewhat composed state of mind. Which wasn't the easiest thing he ever did, but still went with it anyway in spite of his…multiple lapses, in attempting to maintain his cool.

It helped a little bit.

He took another quick mouthful of air and gradually exhaled, probably his last one.

He could do this, he thought to himself. He could _definitely_ do this.

That clever omnic might have succeeded in knocking him off-course and further away from its other buddies, but he still had one remaining course of action left at his disposal.

Even though it wasn't exactly the _sanest_ option available, given what else has happened. On the other hand, what other choice did he have?

This was something that only he was capable of doing, no matter how much of a fuck-up he was for screwing the pooch on this one. More importantly, those Overwatch guys—regardless of his reservations for them and their organization—were still depending on him to buy them some time.

And by God, one way or another, he was gonna give them some fucking time.

"This is gonna suck…" He breathed out in resignation, while moving a free hand forward to his main touchscreen interface, and solidly pressing a finger onto it.

A quick bleep ringing in his ears ensued a second later.

The die is cast.

" _Active sensors now engaged."_ His virtual assistant's dull female voice suddenly piped in on his helmet. _"AESA radar online and operational."_

An intermittent beeping briefly followed after the VA's monotone, and the passive sensor panel in front of him changed to its active sensor mode—along with promptly showing two red dots in the upper right corner of the same LCD screen.

Yes! There they were!

A tally on two contacts, bearing zero-four-zero, speed of about four hundred knots, and at a distance of a hundred and fifteen klicks just northeast of him.

Both were still heading northbound at an altitude of 4,500 feet, and their unchanging speed and course meant that everything was still going accordingly, at least for them.

There was also the matter regarding those remaining UCAVs correspondingly not spotting the Overwatch agents yet, which was good.

All the same, he had to act fast. Wouldn't be long now until the other omnics in the area would eventually spot his active radar emissions, so he had to take advantage of it all while there was still some time left.

He hurriedly fed those relevant readings to all three of his radar-guided missiles hanging directly below his fuselage, whilst also inputting a few more additional instructions that it was going to need later once it was halfway in mid-flight.

The second he was done inputting the needed commands, he squeezed the flight stick's trigger with a quick pull.

He felt three noticeable thumps emanating from below his cockpit.

"Go, baby, go." He whispered, as he watched the AIM-214 missiles streak quickly past in front of him when its rocket motors blazed brightly, distancing itself forward and away from him.

He made the mental calculations in his head.

A one hundred and fifteen kilometer distance from him towards both outbound targets, inbound ordnance speeding at more than three thousand klicks per hour…

ETA for probable splashdown was approximately…a hundred thirty, probably even a hundred forty seconds…give or take a second or three?

So, call it two minutes and twenty seconds.

He could maybe wait for nearly half of the total time. Before the omnic fighters detect the active seekers for all three of his radar-guided missiles, when they start energizing the on-board sensors at their pre-programmed distance and instructions. For now, all those bastards probably recognized was that they were being painted with emissions far, far away from them; and in no way, was his long-range emissions ever a threat to them.

To a certain extent, that's what he rationalized to himself.

Hell, he could be wrong.

Every second that he was energizing his own AESA radar was more time for them to—

" _Warning, warning—"_

His radar warning receivers were beeping ever so loudly in his ears, the frequent high-pitched chirping a sound in which he—and every other fighter jock in the world—never wanted to hear.

In that exact instant, he felt his bowels clench even more tightly, tighter than he's ever felt before in his young and miserable existence.

Fuck.

"— _omnic radar lock, source bearing two-one-three,"_ his VA resumed impassively, _"track south-south-west, distance fifty-one kilometers and—"_

They found him. In less than twenty seconds. From hostile contact detection, all the way to ordnance launch.

It wasn't even remotely possible.

He had been half-tempted—correction, supremely tempted—to turn off his AESA radar and bug the fuck out in fear. But the better part of his rational mind had stopped him at the last possible millisecond, just right before an outstretched finger from a clearly frightened pilot could deactivate it.

If he turned it off now, the missiles he launched would prematurely turn on their own sensors to compensate, and his targets would act accordingly to avoid being blown out of the sky.

He had two choices right this second. It was either turn it off and bug out, hoping for the best while _tipping_ _off_ the bandits to his plan; or, keep it on until the last possible second, just right up until his missiles were within optimal range to energize, and go to terminal velocity on those fuckers.

Blind luck, or something close to near-absolute certainty?

Talk about shi—

"— _SAM launch, SAM launch, break, break. SAM la—"_

He grated his teeth.

A little dot on his radar screen appeared out from behind him.

As always, his decision was made for him.

He punched the throttle all the way to the end and pulled slightly up. The twin FNX turbofan engines strapped behind his cockpit roared, as it gave him as much thrust as it possibly could while his fighter was screaming its way in the air.

He rolled his aircraft a near-ninety degrees right and craned his head all the way to the left, where he was given the view of his impending doom.

A single arching and supremely visible missile exhaust, with the bright point of light generating all that vapor just casually speeding its way towards him.

Radar pegged it rocketing his way at three and a half thousand klicks per hour.

He had less than a minute.

All traces of his indecision were wiped clear on his mind, as he moved automatically on pure impulse.

A hasty finger press on his interface released a cloud filled with chaff, and he cut an extremely hard right at full military power.

He accessed his rear-view cameras via the augmented reality function on his helmet.

To his sheer horror, the enemy surface-to-air missile failed to take the bait, and proceeded to punch through the decoy cloud filled with highly-energized micro-aluminum shavings. Closing the distance between them faster than he expected.

Out of desperation, he launched all his chaff and flare dispensers dry until his VA told him they were completely expended.

Behind him, multiple clouds of aluminum and extremely brilliant spots of miniature stars filled his augmented vision as he half-rolled his aircraft once more on the opposite direction, then made another sharp turn.

He could barely feel his legs now, as the G-suit he wore was squeezing every ounce of blood out of his lower extremities to his brain to prevent him passing out.

Even with that, he could already see faint traces of black from the edge of his vision. The g-forces were taking a tremendous toll on him, and he wasn't sure if he could keep this up for much longer than he had to.

Despite everything, and to no one's surprise, the SAM ignored the frenzy of counter-measures left behind in his wake, and still proceeded to mindlessly pursue him.

He honestly hadn't projected any different.

The virtual assistant was just calmly rattling off the time in his ears before missile impact, like it was just casually taking a stroll through hell and not even breaking a sweat.

Last notification he heard it say was ten seconds, but he wasn't exactly sure if he heard it right.

By then, it was already too late for the likes of him.

Even though he was completely and utterly terrified to the point of nearly shitting himself, he chanced another quick look behind him.

To at least see it coming.

He was immediately greeted with a fast approaching and long-bodied cylindrical object, going off in a blinding display of radiance that forced him to shield his already closed eyes with his arm.

* * *

Several things occurred when the SAM detonated in all its hazy glory.

The first that came was the loudest explosion he's ever heard in his entire life.

He didn't know if it was either that, or his ear drums shattered from the harsh and brutal noise. It was hard for him to distinguish. It could've been both, for all he knew. It sure as hell felt like it.

The second was the brutal shockwave that shook his aircraft like it was on the verge of failing apart at the seams—which again, truly felt like it, and was really hard to miss—as it violently propelled him forward, and probably breaking his restraints and a few of his ribs; followed by a near-endless pinging of explosive fragments, with the latter sounding like rain hitting a tin roof, but on a much colossal and terrifying scale.

The third was all his flight instruments and his VA going off at the same time. Resulting in a garbled mixture of beeping, chirping, and talking as multiple system warnings tried to inform him of the extent of the damage all at the same time.

The fourth was a constant rustling sound that nearly drowned everything else.

And the last was him subconsciously screaming his lungs out raw.

He hadn't meant to do it, of course, but for some reason he did. And now his throat was hurting. That, along with the rest of his entire body.

Everything happened so damned fast, just within mere moments from the other; and it overloaded him with so much stimuli for him to handle all at once, that he was genuinely surprised he was still conscious through it all.

But he was still alive. God knows why, since he sure as hell didn't. Yet, here he was.

He finally decided to open his eyes fully and look around, just right before he suddenly wished he was dead.

He might as well be, since the sight before him was that of utter catastrophe.

His canopy was pockmarked with several quarter sized-holes just right above his head, which explained why the howling of the wind was clearly and uncomfortably noticeable, even with the aid of his helmet's built-in hearing protection; and if it weren't for the fact that said flight helmet was fully-enclosed and hermetically-sealed, he probably would've died from the uncontrolled decompression.

That wasn't even the worst part.

His FA-1's airframe might've surprisingly held, given the circumstances, but half of his left-wing was missing, and the right had a massive hole in the middle of it; resulting in the jet's erratic flight attitude. The fighter's twin turbofan engines weren't generating any thrust, all his instruments and LCD panels (primary, secondary _and_ tertiary) were all out, including most of his sensors and primary avionics. His helmet HUD was offline, along with the augmented reality functionality in it. And to make matters worse, a quick check on his intelligent flight control systems confirmed that they weren't responding to him at all.

And that wasn't even mentioning him rapidly losing altitude at an alarming rate.

He had no power in which he could control the speed of his aircraft, he was blind as a bat since his sensors were offline, and he had no means to control his aircraft's roll, pitch and yaw, given that his fighter's iFCS was pretty much busted beyond comprehension.

In short, he was a dead stick.

On the other hand, he had no earthly idea if the missiles he launched earlier had effectively claimed those two omnic UCAVs, or if those Overwatch guys were actually successful in their mission, or even if the rest of the guys in his squadron actually made it out alive.

Right now, all he knew was that he had done his utmost to perform his duty. Kinda sucked that he got shot down, but at least he could live to tell about it.

Ejection was the only option.

"Well," he said to himself, throat somewhat scratchy, as he wrapped his hands around the hardened yellow and black firing handle between his legs, "time to punch out."

He gave it a moderate pull.

And nothing happened.

Confused, he gave it another pull. This time more forceful than the previous one. And another one, with more strength than the last. And another.

Helpless panic suddenly started to trickle when reality started to sink in.

The canopy wasn't being blown off upwards by the explosive bolts like it was designed to do, and his seat wasn't forcefully yanked backward, right before the rocket motor underneath his seat was supposed to fire his ass off out of this flightless wreck.

"— _ction system malfunction. Warning, warning, ejection system malfunction. Warn—"_

He didn't hear it the VA's endless babble at first. Mostly because there was a motley of other loud sounds and noises that prevented him from hearing it clearly. But when he finally did manage to get a bit of it, all hope within him of surviving this mess was lost.

His hands started to shake first, then his entire body followed soon afterwards; his eyes were starting to water, coupled with his breathing suddenly becoming labored, even with the help of his flight suit and helmet's life support.

Horrible awareness had ultimately taken hold of his very being.

He was going to fucking die.

Oh, God.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

He didn't want to die. Not just yet.

What the hell did he ever do to deserve this terrible fate?

On the way down from 8,000 feet AGL, the very last thought he had was of his deceased mother; as he mindlessly kept on pulling the ejection firing handle over and over again, all while screaming his lungs out once more with incoherent babble about the unfairness of it all.

And before he could fully suffer the effects of his very first nervous breakdown, it didn't take long before his earth-bound plane struck the flat grasslands below like a meteor.

* * *

"… _ster…unis…er…d…ou…ead?"_

It was faint, but he could only hear bits and pieces of it, like someone talking underwater.

"— _is…wo…ilo…oming…o…et…ou…"_

He could scarcely understand a word of it, even if he dared himself to try harder.

He strained to open his eyes, but found out he could only open one of them. Albeit barely.

The first thing that came to mind was that his helmet's faceplate was shattered and had blood splatter on some parts of it, and that his vision was somewhat blurry.

The second was that he was lying on his back, and that he couldn't move at all. No matter how hard he tried and willed himself to.

How the hell did he even get out of his cockpit?

His natural reaction to being paralyzed might've been to panic and freak out, but he currently felt so weak and drained that he couldn't feel or do pretty much anything different.

From his fuzzy view, he could only see cloudy blue skies for the briefest of moments and not a great deal else, right before he closed his sole remaining eye out of sheer exhaustion.

He honestly didn't know how long he closed it, since—just like his vision—his concept of time was just as blurry and ambiguous.

The next time he opened it, the cloudy blue sky wasn't just the only thing he saw.

Above him, was an eerily familiar transport aircraft.

Ducted-fans embedded within the wings…twin tails…dull grey color…looked dated as all hell…

It was starting to get difficult to concentrate on anything right now, most especially his hearing.

" _it…ight…on…he…ay."_

He wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or not.

Because one moment he was staring with immense difficulty at the hovering aircraft, and the next…it looked as if someone blue had leapt out of the transport…with…are those wings?

Yep, he was definitely seeing things now.

That, and he was quite possibly dying.

At the very least, an angel—hallucinatory or otherwise—was slowly descending towards him, one hand outstretched with the other clutching a staff.

Blurry vision and loss of awareness aside, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Probably a she. He wasn't sure keen on the idea of a male angel ferrying him.

For one thing, that transcending sight before him briefly made him forget, for just a moment, that he had almost lost his mind and sanity just right before the crash.

He sluggishly closed his eyes and felt his consciousness slowly ebbing away.

Right then and there he decided that, as far as departing into the next world goes, he really didn't mind this one bit.

No, siree. Not one damned bit at all.


End file.
